


Observations for the Dread Wolf

by 0Rocky41_7



Series: Guinevere Lavellan: This Shit is Weird [10]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Gen, Post-Dragon Age: Inquisition - Trespasser DLC, implied solavellan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2020-02-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:01:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22812721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/0Rocky41_7/pseuds/0Rocky41_7
Summary: After the Exalted Council, Lavellan decides to cut her hair, for convenience’s sake. Fen’harel’s agents observe.
Relationships: Female Lavellan/Solas, Lavellan/Solas (Dragon Age)
Series: Guinevere Lavellan: This Shit is Weird [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1307045
Comments: 6
Kudos: 25





	Observations for the Dread Wolf

**Author's Note:**

> "Siobhan" is pronounced "shih-von"
> 
> Check out this beautiful prize pic of Gwen I won! [Oooh so pretty!](https://imakemywings.tumblr.com/post/190903063310/ahhh-i-just-got-my-prize-from-sunseekerknight-for)

Skyhold had been gripped in ice since the Inquisitor’s return from Halamshiral. The holdfast had been growing steadily quieter ever since Corypheus had been killed, as soldiers and agents returned home and the Inquisition retooled itself for cleaning up after Corypheus, rather than facing his armies. The Inquisition crisscrossed Thedas, its soldiers rebuilding towns, agents arranging treaties to facilitate passage of supplies, and her advisors cajoled donations in spades out of the Chantry. It helped that Divine Victoria had once been one of Inquisitor Lavellan’s most trusted advisors—her spymaster, no less. Sometimes, Siobhan was troubled to think that the Inquisitor’s spymaster now sat the Sunburst Throne, but other times, she thought it best Sister Nightingale was no longer whispering in Lavellan’s ear. Far off in Val Royeaux, or wherever her journeys as a holy mother took her, Leliana was nowhere near at hand for the Inquisitor.

But the quiet that pervaded the halls now was not the natural result of the shrinking of the Inquisition’s forces—there was a palpable tension in the silence, and it had everything to do with what had transpired at the Exalted Council. Siobhan had heard from Finian, to whom she reported regularly, that Fen’harel had shown himself to the Inquisitor. No one could strictly confirm, as no one had seen it, and even Finian’s information had been passed through several others before he gave it to Siobhan, but she trusted their network enough to put stock in it. It would explain the dolorous distance in the Inquisitor’s eyes since her return, why orders going through the Inquisition had been so slow, or non-existent, why Seeker Pentaghast and Ambassador Montilyet spent so much time whispering with furrowed brows and downturned mouths, casting less-than-subtle looks at Lady Lavellan.

Figuring the existence of Fen’harel was difficult, Siobhan knew. But the Inquisitor had been, from what Siobhan had been told, far more devout to the elven gods than Siobhan had ever been. She wasn’t sure she had even _believed_ in Fen’harel before she had joined him. Yet, Siobhan struggled to match the Inquisitor’s reaction with the fear she assumed Lavellan must feel. What could anyone feel, on being addressed by the Dread Wolf himself? But was it _concern_ in the Inquisitor’s eyes? Or something heavier, wetter, softer?

However she expressed her fear, she had no intention of joining with Fen’harel’s cause, that much had been made clear. That was why Siobhan was still there, in Skyhold. Of all the people who had caused to support him, Siobhan would have though Inquisitor Lavellan would be at the top. Had she not striven to be a symbol of Dalish pride? A hero for the elves, a shining example of their people to the rest? Even when accepting the position, so the story went, she had declared that an elf would stand for all of Thedas against Corypheus. But now, Siobhan thought with a curled lip, she had spent too much time amongst the _shemlen_. Too much time hob-knobbing in Val Royeaux, begging favors off Ferelden nobles, and involving herself in Chantry politics. Her ears had grown flat, and she turned her back on the gods and the needs of The People.

Since returning from Halamshiral, the Inquisitor had expelled all activity in her private quarters. She kept her own room, washed her own clothes, and somehow managed to dress herself one-handed. Siobhan had fumed about it to Finian, demanding to know how she was meant to keep an eye on the elf when she had just banished all personal servants from her vicinity? Finian, sympathetic but insistent, told her she needed to find another way. It took weeks of positioning and waiting before she could offer to take a message from Ambassador Montilyet over to the Inquisitor, but it paid off. She added this to her growing list of excuses for being around the Inquisitor’s quarters, in case she should ever be questioned.

In the late morning, Siobhan went up. Inquisitor Lavellan was typically an early riser, and by this time was generally about Inquisition business. Siobhan ought to have known things would be different in the aftermath of Halamshiral. As she crept up the stairs, fantasizing about going through the Inquisitor’s personal correspondence, she became aware there was a noise within the room—a sniffling kind of sound, too loud for a mere rat or errant mouse. She came to a dead halt, but the Inquisitor had already seen or heard something, and lifted her head from where she had been bowed over her desk. Even at a distance, Siobhan could see the tear-tracks on her dark cheeks.

‘What are you doing here?” Inquisitor Lavellan’s voice wobbled, but it did not wholly dispel the hostility in her voice. Siobhan’s eyes widened. Never had she been particularly close with the Inquisitor, but she knew of the elf’s reputation for a gentle touch and even temper—to the despair of her advisors, at times, who would have had more steel from her. Siobhan met the Inquisitor’s gaze and at once she knew—Lavellan was aware that Fen’harel had penetrated the Inquisition. That which had once made Siobhan invisible, a bit of furniture—her sharp ears, her flat nose, her wide eyes—now singled her out as a potential threat, one of Fen’harel’s spies. This was why Lavellan had banned any entry to her personal quarters, outside her inner circle—she did not trust Skyhold’s servants anymore.

“Forgive me, Your Worship,” Siobhan stammered out. “I only came to see if you would be advising about the shipment of winter clothes from Val Chevin today,” she said, fumbling for the excuse she had decided on before entering, then adding a bit more. “It’s so late, and you’re usually out before now, my lady.”

Inquisitor Lavellan exhaled, raking her hand back through her loose curls. Siobhan had never seen them out of the neat braids she usually wore—they fanned out around her in a mane of tight black ringlets, and Lavellan dug her hand into them.

“No, I should ask your forgiveness,” she murmured. “I have been unsettled lately.” The stump of her left arm twitched, almost as if she had gone to move a hand she had forgotten she no longer had. Fen’harel had taken back the anchor, as he meant to do. “And I’m being silly.”

“Is…something the matter, Your Worship?”

“Oh, don’t call me that. It’s nothing.”

“I can call for Ambassador Montilyet,” Siobhan offered.

“No, no…I can’t rely on Josephine to help me with my hair for the rest of my life.” Lavellan pulled at her curls and Siobhan, struck with understanding, stepped further into the room, approaching the desk.

“I could help,” Siobhan offered, clasping her hands before her. “I can manage a decent braid, I think.” The Inquisitor was shaking her head again. Despite her proudly Dalish origins, Siobhan had noted with some unease that she did not sport the _vallaslin_ worn by all Dalish of age.

“No. No, I cannot do it this way forever. There are scissors in that drawer there…would you hand them to me?” Siobhan shuffled to the dresser and opened the small top draw, drawing out a pair of shears, which she passed to the Inquisitor. Boldly, she attempted to meet the Inquisitor’s eyes, such a light brown they were more amber than anything else, but then quickly glanced away, concerned that the former _Herald of Andraste_ might read the lie in her face.

“My lady.” Inquisitor Lavellan ran her hand through her hair once more, then held a clump out straight and started snipping. Her throat trembled with a hard swallow that did not stop the tears from rising to her eyes again as she cut through her thick curls. Had the Inquisitor’s condition grown so fragile she was in such a state? That was certainly something the network would want to know—if the Inquisitor was having a nervous breakdown, the Inquisition would not be a threat much longer. It was not the sort of thing that would function without its mascot.

Siobhan shifted her weight, almost speaking and then biting her tongue several times over before the Inquisitor seemed to remember she was there. Lavellan lifted her attention, most likely to dismiss her, so Siobhan quickly blurted out, “Do you want help, Your Worship?” The Inquisitor was hesitating. Siobhan dared to step into her space by the desk, holding her hand out for the scissors. “I used to cut my sisters’ hair,” she lied smoothly. Still the Inquisitor held back, but then nodded slowly.

“Hold it steady for me, can you?” she said, a catch in her voice from the weeping. Siobhan’s bony hands delved into Lavellan’s curls and she smoothed them out so the Inquisitor could go at them with the scissors. “Oh, if only Vivienne were here,” she murmured to herself.

“Madame de Fer?” Siobhan asked. As a former Dalish elf, the Inquisitor did not expect the same level of silence and deference from her servants that a noble in Denerim or Antiva City might—or so Siobhan was willing to gamble.

“Mm. She always knew what to do with things like this.” Lavellan picked up a limp lock of hair from where it had fallen on her lap and regarded it forlornly. On her desk, Siobhan could catch glimpses of correspondence from across Thedas, including several postmarked from _Tevinter_ , but they were piled on top of each other so that she could catch no more than a few stray words and half-sentences. On the far corner of the desk was a carved wooden halla, with one antler snapped off. She didn’t have time to gawk at the books in the shelf just behind the desk, to see what the Inquisitor had been reading lately.

“Isn’t she leading the College of Magi now?” Another former ally, hundreds of miles away.

“She is,” Lavellan said, and Siobhan thought she heard a smile in the Inquisitor’s voice. It was immediately, if present, supplanted by a low sigh and another despairing tug at her remaining locks. Presently, she went back to cutting her hair, and Siobhan lapsed into silence, until she could no longer bear it.

“Is it true you saw Fen’harel?” Leashing down the eagerness in her voice was a trial; even _she_ had never seen her god in person. The Inquisitor’s back went rigid and her scissors nearly clipped off the end of Siobhan’s finger. The pause stretched out until she thought Lavellan meant not to answer at all. Then:

“Yes. I did.” Siobhan drew in a breath, forcing herself to keep it quiet. Was it wrong, to envy that Inquisitor Lavellan, who opposed Fen’harel’s goals, had met him while she, Siobhan, who served him, had not? Perhaps he thought he would be able to turn the Inquisitor and her forces to his purpose.

“What…what was it like?” she asked, again wrangling her excitement into hand. “I never used to believe in stuff like that, I guess. Fen’harel. The gods. Just seemed like something we told ourselves to make us feel better about being treated like garbage all the time.” _We._ There was a _we_ , even if Inquisitor Lavellan wasn’t acting like it. Maybe someone needed to remind her of that.

The Inquisitor didn’t answer. Her hand moved slowly, as if with care, but Siobhan could see that she was hacking off chunks of hair inattentively, leaving the cut uneven and awkward. Someone else would need to go over it later, or she’d walk around looking like a fool. When it became apparent she was not going to respond, Siobhan struggled with whether or not to prompt her for more. Finian never told her anything!

“What did he say? What does he want from the Inquisition? Are you going to--?”

“ _Thank you_ ,” Inquisitor Lavellan said, cutting Siobhan off. “I’ll finish myself. Siobhan, isn’t it?”

“Yes, my lady,” Siobhan said, biting her tongue and offering a brief, stilted curtsy.

“Thank you for your help.” Siobhan was dismissed, there was no way around it. She shuffled out, but paused going down the stairs when she heard the _snip-snip_ of the scissors start up again. Peering through the gaps in the railing, she saw Inquisitor Lavellan take a few more cuts at her hair, then drop the scissors on the desk, covering her face with her hand. Her shoulders trembled: she was crying again.

A meeting with the Inquisitor felt like something Siobhan should report. It was significant; it was the first time she’d had a real _conversation_ with the Inquisitor. But what would she say? What was there to say about what had just happened? Did Fen’harel care to know that the Inquisitor needed a haircut, as she could no longer braid it herself? That the halla statuette on her desk was broken? That she was rising later than normal? Perhaps there was nothing worth reporting after all.

Nothing the Dread Wolf would care about, anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> Josephine helps her fix her hair later. I'm sure you can guess where she got the halla statue and take a solid one as to how it got broken.
> 
> [On tumblr](https://imakemywings.tumblr.com/post/190924676380/fandom-dragon-age-inquisition-summary-after-the) | [On Pillowfort](https://www.pillowfort.social/posts/1107843)


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